Layered Adjustments
by yournewship
Summary: So let's say they survive. And let's say some of them are in pretty bad shape. Let's see how these rebels manage to adjust to not just victory, but to each other.
1. Chapter 1

So this was hell.

Hell was the sound of muskets and cannons, of the burning red of the French flag, the screams for help. Hell was a musket, pointed at Marius. Hell was the burning in her stomach, the river of blood gushing out, the blurry outline of people running past her.

Eponine leaned against the barricade, gasping for breath, her vision swimming before her. There was a loud rush of sound, a heavy heartbeat. Above her, there was the sound of the hail of bullets, the sharp twang of a musket. Underneath her, she felt a warm wetness seep around her. She heard a distant shouting, a man threatening to blow up the barricade. There was a burning sensation, a numbing pain, starting from her gut, licking at her heart like a slow fire. Her hands groped for the source of pain, causing her to cry out in agony. All her instincts told her to run back to the shadows, to mend in the dark. But as she tried to stand, she felt herself collapse. Although the air was hot and muggy, she began to shiver and quake, her eyes slowly blinking as her teeth chattered. She felt a strong pair of arms wrap around her, voices urgently calling orders.

She mumbled through the pain. The arms held her even tighter, as she felt someone gently pries her hands off her abdomen. Another distant voice sounded, but this time, closer to her. Marius? She tried to turn and see, but the pain curled against her like a dragon, pulling her back. The voice began to speak urgently in her ear.

'Eponine, oh God, what have you done?'

Marius.

Oh God, she had to give him the note. She owed Cosette and him that much. With her hands still shaking, she patted her pockets, her head raised in a valiant effort to look him in the eye. Finally, she found the folded sheet of paper, the note from Cosette. Her breathing grew ragged as she handed him the slip of paper that would take him away from her, away to Cosette. Marius took the note. His hands were covered in gunpowder and looked burned. From saving her. Eponine smiled as she lay her tired head down on his chest. Another stab of pain shot through her, causing her to breath in.

"'ponine, what..."

Still trying to keep her eyes, out, she struggled to speak.

"It's from...Cosette...I kept it from you...I'm sorry..."'

Another shot of pain.

A little fall of rain began to fall. Through the cloud of confusion, the young girl felt the sweat and grime run down her cheek, following the curve of her neck. Softly, she whispered a song her mother used to sing when it was raining, back in the days of the inn. Above her, she felt the vibrations of Marius softly singing along in his lovely tenor voice.

"Rain...will make... the flowers grow..."

And then everything went silent. Everything went black.

There had almost been no time. After Eponine was shot, Joly had come forward, and ordered for her to be removed from the battle field. Marius had carried her limp body through the streets of Paris, before arriving at a cafe with a backdoor unlocked. Hastily, he paid the owned 20 francs to keep her safe, and ran through the cobbled path back to the barricade. He rejoined his comrades, nodding towards Combeferre, who tossed him a musket. It was then that Enjolras told them that they were the last barricade standing.

"We're the last ones."

Those four words reflected on all the men's faces, faces of despair and hopelessness. Enjolras looked at his friends. They were all covered in sweat and grime, some had injuries, some were lying or leaning against something, their bullet wounds seeping with blood. It didn't help that Marius discovered that all the gunpowder was seeped with water, a result of the shower of rain. Spirits were running low, and not because Grantaire had been drinking again. Someone mentioned the dry ammunition on the bodies of the dead National Guards, and the possibility of retrieving what they could gather.

It was then that tragedy struck.

Gavroche had always idolized Enjolras and his men too much. Later on, whenever his name was mentioned, the members of Les Amis would always smile fondly as they remembered the grubby little blonde who had been such a brave soldier, and would often spend many nights around a fire telling tales of the times Gavroche had saved their lives.

But on that night, when ammunition was running out, and it seemed that all was lost, Gavroche took it on himself to get the gunpowder. Slipping between the men and through the barricade, he began pulling packets of the gunpowder strapped to the sides of the dead soldiers. Courfeyrac was the first to discover what he was doing.

"Gavroche! What are you doing? Get back!"

The young boy turned and grinned at student. He nodded that he was okay, and continued pillaging off the bodies. The guards shot a warning shot at him, hitting a smoking wooden door. By now, Combeferre was scrambling over the barricade, trying to pull the boy back.

"Gavroche, are you insane? Come back before you're hurt!"

But the boy wouldn't listen. Gavroche stood up straight, his hands heavy with gunpowder. Then, he shouted towards the soldiers.

"Viva France!"

The bullet hit him in the chest, and he fell. He lay there amongst the dead soldiers, just a small blonde, glassy-eyed boy.

"No!"

Combeferre ran forward and picked up the boy, his tears falling freely. The rest of the men, both behind the barricade and amongst the guards, were speechless. Enjolras knelt by Gavroche, the boy breathing in jagged, rushed breaths. But still, the little man gave a half hearted grin as his arms fell to the side, the gunpowder boxes slipping to the ground.

"I got the powder..."

Gavroche coughed, a deep hacking sound that caused him to cry out in pain and turn as white as a sheet. Enjolras took the pin on his jacket and placed it on the boy's dirty shirt before Joly pushed forward. The medical student took one look at the bullet hole and took a deep breath.

"We need to get him away as well. In fact, we need to tend to the wounded as soon as possible. Feuilly, see if you can find a proper doctor or at least someplace we can take the injured, I'll see what I can do now."

While the men tried to get the injured boy away, Courfeyrac was standing at the top of the barricade, yelling at the soldiers, his tears matching Combeferre.

"Has it come to this? Has it not been enough? You starve the people, you force women into prostitution, you make men watch their families starve. Now you shoot the children? Have you no shame? Are you not Frenchmen just like us?"

For a moment, Enjolras was afraid they would shoot his friend, and moved to pull him down. Grantaire had the same idea, and both men began pulling at the arms of their philosophical friend, but Courfeyrac stood firm. Then it happened.

From the back of the National Guard, someone spoke.

"You know, I have a boy back home, kinda looks like him. Got the same hair, you know?"

Another man spoke.

"I used to live on the streets like him. Gets you real hungry."

One by one, the soldiers began dropping their weapons, taking off their hats and removing their uniform. The general, after watching his army fall apart, put down his gun as well. He came forward, and stood in front of the barricade, without a weapon or any form of protection.

"From this day forth, the people stand with you. Viva France!"

This cry was echoed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

When she awoke, all she saw were dull lights, fuzzy shapes, constantly shifting, always moving. She tried to sit up, but sharp pains shot up her back and ribcage. The air around her was muggy and thick, there was a sense of heaviness, and there was barely any light. Gripping the burlap sack her hand had been resting on, Eponine struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness hit her, along with a numbing sensation of pain. The corners of her vision grew white, but she continued pushing, until she was somewhat propped up against a sack of grain. Still breathing hard, the young girl took in her surroundings. A sense of fear gripped her as she came to the realization that she wasn't back at the barricade. Her breathing grew ragged as she tried to stand, her abdomen and back screaming in pain. Biting onto a strip of cloth ripped from her raged dress, she began hobbling towards the door, still breathing hard.

Outside, the sky was still dim, the wind was cold and harsh. Eponine raised a blood caked hand to rub against her arms in a pitiful attempt to try to warm herself up, but her arms felt like a ton of bricks, and fell limply to her side. Numbly, she found wall to hold her weight, as she hobbled towards the direction of the barricade. Where was Marius? She was so tired...so tired...but she couldn't stop. In a dim haze of numbness and sharp pain, the young gamine continued down streets, relying on all the nights spent on the streets to guide her and to keep her form collapsing.

Just as she turned the clearing to where the barricade stood, her foot gave out, and she tripped forward. Her hands flung out to break her fall, and one caught onto a slopping wooden beam. Clinging tightly, her breathing became irregular, and she felt a warm wetness sweeping from her gut. Her vision became rimmed with a sharp whiteness, then a hazy blackness. As her eyes began to close in exhaustion, she caught sight of a golden blur. A man? The golden blur came closer, and she heard a muffled voice say something.

"Monsieur?"

It was all she could manage before collapsing.

Enjolras leaned against a wagon, his aching arm tightly bandaged. His body was crying with exhaustion, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to sleep. He looked around at the Les Amis. They had been lucky. From what he could see, most of the members were still alive. But the golden haired leader couldn't celebrate. Not yet.

Gavroche.

Enjolras kept replaying the scene in his mind, of all the ways it could have ended differently, where he wouldn't have had to endanger the poor boy's life. He had won a revolution, Gavroche did, and now, there was a chance that he would never know. Enjolras' heart sank as he remembered how everyone had told him that Gavroche would take over if he ever fell in battle, and the student couldn't disagree. The young street urchin's heart pumped with French pride, was always one step ahead of the rest of Les Amis, and he even had the hair colour. And now, he had ended the revolution. Silently, the student leader winged a silent prayer for their youngest comrade.

As he opened his eyes, he caught sight of something moving. He turned to see the eldest Thenadier child, leaning heavily against a wooden beam. Instincts told Enjolras something was wrong, and he pushed to stand up, and hesitantly made his way towards the girl. He caught her just as she collapsed.

"Grantaire! Joly!"

Both men came running, and helped Enjolras carry her to a shaded spot, not that he needed help. The girl was relatively light, to the point where, even with his injured arm, Enjolras found it relatively easy to carry. They soon found out why.

They laid her on the ground, and Joly slowly began to remove her outer layer of clothing, a deep crimson stain seeped into the fabric. Her undergarments dyed a rich red, which Joly carefully cut apart as well. The sight that met their eyes made all three men gasp.

There were two bullet holes, and the skin around the wounds were fiery red and a rotting purple colour. There was a huge bruise spread across her abdomen, a dark bruise that seemed green in one spot, and purple in another. The blood spread across her front and back. But what the men also noticed was the increasing amount of bruises that were already healing, a steady stream of yellow and brown bruises around her rib cage, and the sharp bumps of scars, one laced around her rib cage, on trailing to her back. Eponine was so thin, she seemed almost emancipated. There were strange lumps on her ribs, and as they watched her lie there breathing shallow breaths, they couldn't help but notice the hollowness of her cheeks, the boniness of her fingers and lack of colour on her face. There were bruises clinging to her neck, and her arms were so thin and bony, Enjolras could wrap one hand around her upper arm.

Joly took a towel, and began to gently towel off as much blood as he could, giving him a clearer view of the bullet area. While the blood came off, the amount of bruises seemed to multiply. Enjolras could count the amount of ribs she had, and was starting to worry that the bullet had gone clean through.

"Joly...is there a chance that the bullet didn't stay? I mean, she's pretty thin, so there could be a chance that it went though..."

The medical student continued to wipe blood off, but thought about it.

"There could be a chance, but we'd have to check her back to see if the bullet exited her body there. As of right now, I don't really want to risk moving her too much and cause her to lose even more blood, because the chances are pretty slim."

He handed the stained rag to Grantaire, and scratched his head.

"Right now, I'm just worried that it might have been lodged between a rib or that it's gone too deep for us to dig it out from here."

Enjolras shot his friend a look, a feeling a dread creeping up.

"But she'll be okay?"

"At this point, I'm not sure. All I know is, we need to get everyone to someplace safe and not in the open. Stay here, I'll look for some mode of transportation."

Joly ran off, leaving Enjolras and Eponine. The blonde haired boy slowly slid down onto the floor next to her, sitting so his arm was easily cradled. He watched her chest rise in an unsteady beat, the breaths growing as shallow as her brother's. The sun was creeping up, it's dull rays falling on the pair. Enjolras closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion and adrenaline sink in. His arm was throbbing. He opened his eyes to the sound of footsteps.

"The soldiers are willing to lend us some carts as a transport for the injured. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have already started moving the injured, including Gavroche. We just have to get the girl."

Grantaire helped Enjolras up, and the two gently carried the girl to the cart, where they gently lay her next to her brother. Joly handed Combeferre a towel, and told him to hold it against the bullet wound, while doing the same with Gavroche. There was a sigh of relief as the cart started moving. The students allowed themselves to close their eyes for a moment.

That is, until Eponine's eyes shot open, and began screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

The men fell into a flurry to find out what was wrong, pinning her arms down to keep her from scratching at the open wound. Grantaire sat on her legs to keep her from kicking, while Joly did his best to keep her upper body still. The bucket of water sitting on the bench fell, spilling water onto the wooden bench lining the sides of the cart. Eponine's eyes snapped open.

"Oh my God...what..."

Her eyes were lined with red, and her cheeks seemed to grow paler by the second. Her breathing grew deeper, as if she was gasping for breath. Blood gushed out of her wound, seeping into the thick bandage Joly had managed to wrap around her.

"We can't take her to the hospital like the others, there isn't enough time. We'll have to bring her to my house. Monsieur, please hurry!"

Joly directed this to the soldier driving the cart. With a flick of the rein, the horses took off, their hoofed feet clattering against the uneven cobbled streets of Paris. As the wind rushed by, Eponine seemed to turn white, her matted hair clinging to her face.

"Marius...please...please..."

She muttered this, before sliding back into the dark. The cart skidded to a stop as the driver jerked the reins back. Joly leaped off the cart, and ran to the back, Grantaire following in suit. Both men gently carried Eponine into the house, with Combeferre following slowly, cradling the little boy. A woman opened the door, and without a question, stood aside for the strange group of men to enter. She ran up the stairs, and opened the door to one of the empty rooms in the house, and stepped out to let the men lay the Thenadier children on the separate beds.

Joly waved the woman in.

"Andrea, I need you to help me. These two have been shot, and I need to get the bullets out. Tell Hazel to show these gentlemen to their rooms."

She nodded, and hurried out of the room, only to return an enamel basin of water, which she placed on a table. Around her arms, she had draped a few towels. Behind her was a little girl, her pale blue eyes peeking out from her thin wisps of blonde hair. She was lugging a black bag, and was struggling to keep up with Andrea. Combeferre leant down to help her, taking the heavy bag from her, and placed it on the floor next to the table.

Joly turned to his comrades.

"Hazel here will take you to someplace where you can clean up and rest. Don't worry, I'll take care of these two."

Andrea nudged her gently, with a softly whispered, "Go."

Hazel smiled shyly, and walked out the door, leaving the four men to follow the petite little blonde. She walked down the short, dim hallway, and softly pushed open a door, and stood aside. Inside were four beds, pushed closely to the wall. There was a window that had been pulled shut, and an old wooden closet to one corner. For a moment, none of the four men knew what to do, and they stood still for a moment, the silence hanging between them. Combeferre turned to Hazel.

"Would you be so kind but to show me somewhere I could maybe wash up?"

He added a smile at the end. The little girl blushed and grinned shyly back, before running out of the room, with Combeferre following in slow lopping strides. The moment they left, all the men relaxed a bit. Grantaire headed for the nearest bed, throwing himself on. He was out cold in a matter of moments. Courfeyrac shrugged off his dirt laden, blood stained jacket, and hung it on the backside of the chair, before heading to another empty bed. This left Enjolras, who slowly lowered himself into the chair, his back pressed against the sleeves of Courfeyrac's jacket. The sun had come up, and it was streaming into the room. It's warm rays pressed against his aching muscles, illuminating his hair. The arm Joly had wrapped up was throbbing gently against the bandages, and he absentmindedly rubbed it. The exhaustion began to settle down, pulling his eyelids lower and lower, until he found himself losing the battle to sleep. And that was where Joly found him, hours later, his head tilted slightly to the side, fast asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

There had been blood. Now, there was even more.

As the members of Les Amis settled into their room, Joly and Andrea were doing their best to remove the bullets from the Thenardiers. It was hard enough to remove one bullet, but alongside the time frame they had to work in, the two had to work hard and fast.

Andrea carefully removed Eponine's trench coat, unbuttoning the men's shirt the girl had pinched from her father. With nimble fingers, undid the corset the men had loosely tied back, and slowly cut through the bandage Joly had managed to wrap around her. Andrea bit her lip but couldn't keep a gasp from escaping. Joly turned at the sound of it, and was met with a sickening sight. The wound had started to fester, turning the skin around it a green-puce colour. The bruises seem to stick out even more. He shrugged his coat off, draping it over a chair, and got to work.

Joly worked over both patients, his back aching, his hands still blistered from the barricade. His scalp itched from dried sweat and grime, and yet he couldn't find himself stopping to scratch. Andrea kept the pan of water fresh, rushing in and out of the door to refill it with clean water. She scrubbed the stained towels, dyed red with the seeping blood of both patients, the water turning a shocking colour. Her feet quivered from the heaviness of the pan, and yet, with one glance at the pale lips of Eponine, or the flush of white on Gavroche's stained face, she found herself hurrying her steps. The pair worked late into the afternoon, the pain and blood loss keeping Gavroche and Eponine unconscious.

Finally, after hours, Joly wrapped the final bandage around both patients. After scrubbing his hands in a clean pan of water, he sank onto an empty chair, his shoulders crying in relief. His stomach had long since stopped hurting, choosing instead to gurgle it's desperate need for food. There was a deep ache in his ankles, and he itched all over. And yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to surrender to sleep.

Andrea threw the bloodied towels into the now dirty water, and carried it downstairs. She dumped out the water, filling it with fresh, clean water. Taking some soap, she scrubbed out as much blood from the towel as she could before bringing both back to the room where the Thenadier children lay. Seeing Joly's desperate fight against sleep, she shook her head slightly.

"Ah, Master Joly. It's best you get some rest. Hazel and I will clean up here."

He could only nod, his head lolling up and down. Pushing with his arms, he summoned up as much energy as he could, and stood up, staggering slightly out of the room. As he passed by the room where the rest of the Les Amis lay sleeping, he turned the nob and pushed the door open slightly, peering in. Grantaire lay snoring in one corner, Courfeyrac lay curled in another. Both men had expressions of pure exhaustion etched across their faces, a pale ghost like colour stretched across their skin. Joly smiled slightly as Grantaire snorted and turned in his slumber. The crack in the window let in a slight breeze, blowing through Enjolras' curly hair. Their fearless leader sat slumped in a wooden chair, his arm caressed gently against his chest. His eyebrows were knit in a frown, and he kept shaking his head slightly, muttering faint words. Joly took one last look at his friends, before retiring to his own room.

As he pushed into the familiar bedroom, he all but ran to his bed, sinking into his pillow. Sleep found him moments later.

While the men slept of the nightmares of the barricade, Andrea was busy searing for Hazel. She clomped down the stairs, and went into the kitchen, but the little girl wasn't there. She checked her small bedroom, the library, and even peeped into the guest room. Nothing. But as she passed through the kitchen again, she heard a faint giggle, coming from the backyard. Already slightly annoyed at the wasted time, she rushed to the back door, but curiosity kept her from flinging the door open. She opened it a faint crack and peeped out. Hazel was kneeling on the grass, daisies strewn all around her. The girl seemed to be making a daisy chain for the man, who sat with his back against the wall surrounding their house. His eyes were closed, and shoulders were slack, but he smiled every so often, and when Hazel toddled over with the daisy chain, he opened his eyes, and grinned at the little blonde. He dipped his head down for her to place the chain on his dark hair. Hazel giggled again. Hazel ran off to collect more flowers, and as Andrea watched, the man's expression dropped again. For a moment, he seemed like he was going to burst into tears. And he did.

There it was.

The lone tear.

A single tear fell from his eyes, trailing his cheek, pushing against the dust and sweat. Hurriedly, he rubbed it off, and pasted on a smile as Hazel came back with an arm load of flowers. The pair began making flower chains.

Andrea shut the door, debating on whether she should call the girl in. Finally, she decided against it. The man needed a break. Massaging her shoulder, she climbed the stairs again, and entered the room. In the silence of the house, she began to scrub down the room, careful to avoid the beds where the two patients lay. She felt like it would never end. The floor was so seeped with blood, it seemed more red than brown. The sheets were equally as bad. But still, she worked. Pushing until she heard the clock chime. Looking up, she realized it was 6. Getting off her knees, she gave the room one last look. She pulled the windows shut, threw the towels in the pan, and carried it back downstairs, where she left it just outside the backdoor. In the kitchen, she began to prepare a dinner for Joly and his house guests.

The door slammed. Andrea looked up to see Combeferre and Hazel walk in, their clothes littered with pollen and grass stains.

"Hazel, go clean up. Your supper is in your room."

The child ran off to the bathroom. Combeferre pulled up a chair, and sank into it. He leaned his head into his hands, and rubbed his face. Andrea slid a bowl a broth and a chunk of warm bread across the table to him.

"Here, eat."

He looked up, and upon seeing the food, he smiled gratefully, before devouring the bread and soup. When he was finished, Andrea slid some more bread, and he devoured that as well. He stopped in mid bite, and looked up.

"Is...are they...I mean...how are they doing?"

Andrea paused.

"You mean the girl and her brother?"

Combeferre nodded.

"Now I'm no doctor, but from what Master Joly told me, they'll be fine. Bed rest is what they need. And food, because Lord knows when the last those two had a decent meal!"

The philosopher finished his meal, and followed Andrea back to his room. She held the door open for him. He nodded a word of thanks, before collapsing onto an empty bed. Soon, he too, was asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

By now, Paris was awake, people bustling to jobs or to shops. Children ran around, waving flowers in the air. Young schoolboys walked down the street, their books carefully placed in bags latched shut. Ladies walked around the park in pairs, parasols perched primly on their shoulders. Windows burst open to let in the fresh air, for the new light of the day. People grinned and laughed, sharing bits of bread with cooing pigeons. At least, on one side of Paris.

On the other side, doors were still locked. Children lay tucked firmly in bed, worried mothers leaning against the wall, peeping out the crack in the window at the hollow streets. On the ground lay the remnants of the barricade, broken slabs of wood, splinters growing from the ground. The streets were paved with a river of blood, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder.

And the bodies.

Oh, the bodies.

Some lay on the ground, their faces lay pressed to the side. Others were draped across the mountain of wagons, doors and tables. Their backs were arched in a painful angle, their eyes rimmed red, their mouths gapped open.

Slowly, doors creaked open, women hesitantly pushed their way out of their homes. In their arms were buckets of water, scrubs and towels floating alongside bars of soap. They put the tubs down on the street, slowly looking around. They gulped back their tears, swallowed their cries, and made their way to the barricade. Nodding a nod of acknowledgement to each other, they dropped to their knees and began scrubbing the river of blood down the drain. After a while, they began talking in hushed whispers, their eyes stealing glances at the bodies draped along side walls, of the ripped uniforms.

"Did you see them, going off to fight? Children of the barricade, who didn't last the night?"

"Think about it. Someone used to cradle them. And kiss them when they cried."

One of the women began to cry, the others remained stone faced. And yet, all of them prayed a silent prayed, thanking the Lord for not taking their own children.

Who will wake them? No one ever will. No one ever told them, that a summer day can kill.

They were just school boys.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the same dream. Well, it started out the same.

Cafe Musain. The swinging doors were shut, the windows hanging off their hinges. The lamps were lit inside, their lights glowing against the darkness. Inside was the sound of laughter, and the faint tune of a drinking song. No doubt Grantaire was leading it, and the the sounds of the thumping, he had probably started to do the jig. The air outside was warm and comforting, a faint breeze flushed by. His hair was ruffled by the wind as it danced through his curls. Under his arms, he clutched books and scrolls, and he felt a twing of excitement in his gut as he pushed into Cafe Musain.

Then the dream changed.

The sight that met his eyes caused his hands to slip. His load of books thudded to the ground, their sound echoing his thudding heart. The arm full of scrolls unfurled as they roll across the ground, chasing the shadows dancing to the lamplight. His breathing quickened.

Gone were the groups of tables, the mugs of beer, the plates of food. Gone were the chairs, of the warm glowing lights, hanging from the ceiling. Gone was the temporary platform they had built for his speeches. Gone were the people, with their laughter and smiles.

Gone.

Everywhere he turned, he saw wreckage. Tables lay overturned, their chair smashed against the walls. The laps had fallen to the ground, their lights blown out. One remained hanging, swinging in the cold draft. There was smashed glass everywhere, plated flung across the room. The windows were hanging on their hinges, the doors were gently creaking. His legs shaking, he started to climb the stairs, until he tripped over something warm and bulky.

Under the dim, glowing light, he could make out a faint facial profile. Feuilly. His hands shook as he pushed past his dead friend, almost racing up the stairs. He almost wished he hadn't.

Blood was everywhere. It was sprayed across the wall, the drops will warm and dripping. The floor was a rich ruby colour, seeping deep into the wooden planks, hitting the cafe below. The small balcony doors had been torn off, and lay smashed against a mass.

Grantaire.

He stepped back, his hands clutching his chest, when he tripped again.

Joly.

Bahorel.

Combeferre.

Courfeyrac.

He heard sudden footsteps, and he whipped his head around. The air was suddenly full of the sound of bullets, raining like hail from the sky. Cannons went off in the distance, echoed by the screams of women. His hands were gripping something. He looked down, the French flag. It's cloth had been dyed with the blood of his comrades, it's edges were frayed and tattered. But it was here. The footsteps got closer, closer, closer.

Soldiers from the National guard burst into the room, their guns aimed at him.

"There he is!"

What?

"The leader!"

It all made sense, and yet it didn't. The faces of the guards were not of soldiers, but of his friends. Grantaire was kneeling on the ground, his musket aimed at his legs. Combeferre's eyes had a hard look to them. And there he was, little Gavroche.

No.

Not Gavroche.

The little boy was wearing his usual outfit, but pinned to his rugged shirt was not the pin of the French Revolution, but the medal of the King. The little boy leaned against a broken table, laughing at the trapped revolutionist.

No.

Another set of footsteps entered the room, the captain. Marius.

The freckled man looked the curly haired boy in the eyes. Seething dark brown ones met shaking blue ones. Marius opened his mouth and said one word.

"Fire."

The shots rang out.


	7. Chapter 7

'Gavroche!'

Eponine screamed. She struggled to push herself to the body of the small boy, but fell sideways. Her body was aching, as she heaved herself off the cobbled grounds. The barricade stood, a dark looming shape, at the end of the street. Eponine watched as Gavroche climbed the sides, his dirty gripping the broken banisters, his feet sliding against the smooth wooden doors. His dirty blonde hair hung in thick ropy bunches against his neck.

Eponine began to run, screaming for her brother to stop. But her feet kept sliding, and the street seemed to grow longer, the sky turned darker. It was raining, not the soft pattering rain that brought her comfort. It a dark, heavy rain, striking against her cheek, soaking her clothes. Gavroche's feet began to slide back as he scrambled to get a tighter grip. A loud sound flooded the streets, the ground became sticky. Gunshots echoed in the air, the bullets chasing each other, flying at the barricade. The ground was a river of blood, gushing down the streets, running into the gutters. She head screams of terror as the cannons sounded.

And still, Gavroche climbed.

Her feet felt numb, there was a sharp pain in her lower abdomen area. Just as she reached the base of the barricade, she looked up. The wind whipping through his hair, young Gavroche stood, balancing on a broken wagon. His hands were raised, his Revolution patch clinging to his ripped shirt.

"Viva la France!"

She collapsed.

Bullets ate away at him.

She lay on the ground, watching as he fell, a grubby angel in the middle of Paris. His body hit the floor, his eyes glassy.

"Gavroche!"

The girl began to scream, from the pain in her abdomen, and at the sight of her dead brother. Breath heaving, she began to push herself towards his body, only to feel a rough hand on her shoulder.

"Going somewhere, you filthy animal?"

Papa.

His hands struck her cheek, her back, her head. His legs kicked her, again and again. She bit back a scream of pain as she felt blood gushing out of her stomach.

"You insolent girl. 4 lousy francs? What good will that do? How do you expect us to survive if you keep slacking off?"

Another kick, one harder than the rest. She heard a crack as her ribs gave way. Her arms folded in, as she fell to the ground. She curled up as her father continued to beat her, to berate her, throwing abusive words at his shaking daughter.

"Papa...no, please. Please, Papa...next...better...please..."

The scene changed.

She was in a dark, dingy alley. The walls were dripping, there were faint sounds of moaning and whimpering coming from dark corners. Eponine lay, a puddle of rags and bones. Her breathing was hard as she struggled to curl up into a ball. A man stood above her, a pedophiliac smile pasted on his face. His hands went down to his belt, pulling it out, and looping it around his hand.

"So, sweetheart. What's the price for you?"

"Please monsieur...not tonight...please...just let me go..."

He laughed, a cold heartless laugh.

"Stupid girl. Who do you think you are?"

She began to scream.


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras jolted awake, his neck ringed with sweat. There was a blanket draped over his body. He could feel his heart hammering, his fingers were shaking slightly. The blonde looked around him, slightly confused, before remembering where he was. Rubbing his sore back, he stood up, slightly shaky on his feet. Enjolras twisted his back, gently pulling his neck from side to side to stretch out his sore muscles.

Looking around, it seemed that the men were still deep in slumber. Grantaire had one arm flung over his head, the other resting on his stomach. Combeferre was curled up in a cocoon, arms wrapped slightly around himself, facing the wall. Sighing in his sleep, Courfeyrac turned slightly, favouring his right side. His browns were knitted in a frown, as he murmured in his sleep.

A damp, cool breeze blew in, a temporary relief to the humid heat of the room. Enjolras nudged the wooden paned windows slightly open. Outside, rain was pouring down in heavy sheets. Aside from the sound of the pattering rain, the streets were silent. A distant roll of thunder chased after a flash of lightning. The young man shivered slightly, feeling a mixture of gladness that he was inside, and a feeling of guilt for those who could not afford such luxury. Grantaire snorted into the darkness, and turned, snuffling as he did. The clock downstairs struck .

Gong.

Gong.

Gong.

3AM. His stomach growled in return.

Folding the blanket the best that he could with one arm, he left at the foot of one of the beds, and crossed to the door. Still massaging his sore back and shoulders, he twisted the door knob and let himself out of the room. As he walked, he could feel his belly growling and twisting in pain. The wooden floorboards seemed to creak under his weight. He had just reached the staircase when he heard a whimper.

He paused.

There it was again. A slight whimper, followed by the soft sound of crying. A girl. She sounded scared. Enjolras, his stomach still growling faintly, ventured cautiously down the hall, until he came to the door where the whimpering was coming from. Again, he paused, in case his ears were deceiving him.

Another whimper.

Slowly, he twisted the knob, and pushed his way slowly into the room. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he entered the room, taking care to not sound against the floor. Gently shutting the door behind him, he leaned back against it, and looked around.

Like the room where his men now lay asleep, this one had a wardrobe, and a few chairs. The window was opened just a small crack, enough to let a slight breeze in, and enough light to see. There were two beds, with two shapes in them. The whimpering was coming from one of them. The figure was murmuring as well, tossing her head from side to side.

"Papa...no, please. Please, Papa...next...better...please..."

Eponine lay in the bed, the blankets tangled at the bottom of her feet. Her dark hair was matted, and clumped along her neck. Sweat ran down her forehead, with locks of hair plastering them against her. Even in the dim room, Enjolras could see the faint scar that ran under her eyes, at the tip of her cheek. The hollowness in her eyes seemed to resonate off her body, and there was no missing the bruises creeping up her neck.

Enjolras made his way, slowly, to the side of the bed. He lowered himself onto the chair next to her, one arm gripping the back of the chair for support, and turned towards the girl.

A single tear ran down her left cheek, tracing the curve of her neck.

He could feel his heart break.

"Eponine? Eponine?"

He whispered, trying to wake her softly. She continued to murmur, and began to cough. Her body began to shiver, causing her to cough even more. Worried about her wounds, Enjolras cautiously reached out, gently shaking her by the shoulder.

"Eponine...wake up...you're having a nightmare..."

Slowly, the gamine rolled out of sleep. He watched as her eyes opened, as they slowly focused on where she was. There was a slight panicky look to her, as she struggled to see where she was. Enjolras placed a steady hand on her shoulder, to calm her down. But at the touch of his hand, she gasped, and struggled to sit up.

"No...not tonight...please..."

Eponine gasped in pain, tears trailing down her face. It hurt Enjolras to see her in this much pain.

"No, no. Eponine, you need to lie down. You'll tear your stitches. Please, wake up."

He pleaded, in a desperate attempt to get the gamine to calm down. Spying a basin on the table, he grabbed the towel soaking inside, wrung out the excess water, and began to gently sponge-dry her sweaty forehead. At first, she recoiled at the damp cloth, but soon, he could feel her relax, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Slowly, she regained consciousness, her tired eyes blinking slowly, focusing on Enjolras.

"Mon...monsieur...?"

"Shh...it's okay. You're safe."

Her breathing was still shallow, and in the faint moonlight, he could see the paleness of her skin, melting against the white pillow case, damp with her sweat. The leader continued to sponge her with the towel, taking note of the heat radiating off her skin.

"Please..."

She was interrupted by a a series of coughs, deep and hacking.

"Please monsieur...not tonight...please...just let me go..."

It took him a moment to understand what she was saying.

"Eponine, you're safe. We've taken you to Joly's house. You were shot. Gavroche is here, we won the revolution."

She continued to blink, trying to focus her eyes.

"Gavroche...?"

He smiled. Even in times of pain, she still placed her family first.

"He's safe. Joly fixed him up, he's asleep."

Eponine murmured a few incoherent words, sliding in and out of sleep. Her breath was hot against the leader's hand. Enjolras folded the rag, and draped it along the side of the basin. Placing one hand on her forehead, he placed the other on his own, comparing the temperature.

How had his mother done it?

She used to...to...

Enjolras tried to pull up the memory of his mother, ones that he had pushed to the back of his memory.

_"Mama?"_

_"Yes, dear."_

_"Why are you kissing my forehead?"_

_"To check your temperature, love."_

_"How?"_

_"A mother has her ways, sweetheart. Now lie back in bed, I'll go get you some soup."_

In the darkened room, the leader sat in the chair, his arms aching. His eyes took in the broken body of the street girl, her forehead burning, her skin shallow and pale. He hesitated, then leaned in.

He kissed her, softly, on the forehead. As he leaned in, he breathed in. Under the sour smell of dirt, and sweat, there was a faint sent of apples, like the ones in the orchard his family used to go to during the summer. When his lips met her forehead, he felt her relax, her body stopped struggling, and she sank back into her pillow. He felt his heart leap. Surprised, he leaned back into his chair, running his good hand through his golden curls.

His stomach broke the silence, reminding him of his original purpose of getting up. Heaving himself off the chair, he headed towards to door. Before he crossed the threshold, he turned towards the girl, now unconscious. He paused.

"Don't worry. I'll be back."


	9. Chapter 9

Across town was a different story. While Enjolras sat by the fever stricken girl, another scene was taking place.

"Blast it all!"

Monsieur Thenadier slammed his fist onto the wooden table. The few francs that lay scattered on the table top jumped, a few rolling off the table, clattering onto the floor. The flame on the twisted stub of a candle flickered against the darkness of the room. His wife sat next to him, a frayed and tattered shawl draped carelessly over her shoulders. She was gently rubbing the bottom of her feet, humming a faint tune as her husband continued to grumble. All over the floor lay pieces of garments, several of them soaked in blood. The pockets were all emptied, the bullets, pieces of silver, and tokens sat in a bag at Thenadier's feet, ready to be sold off.

Monsieur Thenadier continued to sit in dissatisfaction, absentmindedly rubbing the ring on his finger. He had plucked it off the fingers of one of the dead rebels.

Speaking of which.

"I assume our useless thing of a daughter is gone?"

Madame Thenadier stood up, stooping over to pick up a stained cotton shirt. She inspected the holes sprouting from the back, while answering her husband.

"Obviously. That boy she's been hanging around, that...Pontmercy, he was at the barricade, wasn't here?"

They fell back to silence. Madame Thenadier dug out a rusted needle, along with some old thread. She began mending the shirt, deciding it would be a waste to throw it out. They could make a few francs selling these old rags at the market.

The door suddenly flung open. Azelma, their second daughter, burst in. Thick clumps of hair was falling out of her cap, a result of a hasty attempt to pin it up. She was holding half a loaf of bread, which she threw onto the table. Reaching into the folds of her dress, she pulled out a heavy purse that clanked with coins. Monsieur Thenadier's eyes widened with greed as he grabbed the purse from her, pouring the contents out to count.

"Excellent, my dear!"

Azelma smiled briefly at her father's praise, then ran up the stairs, her steps almost silent.

Madame Thenadier picked up the bread, and began slicing the loaf, while watching her husband's dirty fingers rifle through the small pile of coins on the table.

"Azelma is already doing a perfect job in replacing Eponine. In one day, she's made more than her older sister. You know, maybe we won't need that useless thing anymore!"

The thief laughed as he took the slice of bread his wife handed him. There was another knocking on the door. Thenadier stopped laughing, scooped up the coins and poured them back into the purse. Giving it a kiss, he threw it to his wife, who slipped it into one of the many folds of her dress.

The door flung open. Montparnasse, his greasy hair pushed back, stormed in, twiddling a knife between his fingers. Monsieur Thenadier nodded silently at his fellow gang member, while his wife left the room.

"Thenadier, where is your daughter?"

It wasn't a question; it was a command.

The ex-inn owner turned his head towards Montparnasse, while tiredly rubbed his eyes. He purposely pretended he misheard the question.

"Azelma? She's upstairs."

Montparnasse slammed his hand onto the table. The stub of candle flickered again.

"You filthy peasant. You know who I'm talking about. It's been a week, and I haven't seen so much as a hair of Eponine."

"Eponine? What do you want with that pointless thing? She's dead and gone. Forget her. We have bigger things to think about."

"Where is she, Thenadier? You promised her to me!"

"I can't help if the stupid girl decided to get her self killed at the barricade!"

Both men eyed each other, their breathing heavy. The knuckles on Montparnasse's hand grew white as he gripped his knife. Monsieur Thenadier collapsed back onto his chair, his head on his hands. After what seemed like hours, he uttered one sentence.

"Azelma's upstairs."

Madame Thenadier came back in, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Her face was pale, and her lips pressed into a thin line. She stared at the back of her husband's head, hatred evident in her eyes as Montparnasse shoved past her, heading for the staircase.

Montparnasse's heavy footsteps on the stairs were followed by the slamming of a door. Moments later, Azelma's screams could be heard throughout the house, and onto the streets. As she cried, Monsieur Thenadier returned to counting his coins. His wife stood at the doorway, unable to return to her husband. The sobs of her remaining daughter echoed in her ears, as Montparnasse took control of her body. Madame Thenadier stood for another moment, before marching out of the house, the door slamming behind her.

Azelma's pleads for help followed her onto the street.


End file.
